Managing Ming
by Mirvena
Summary: Just another day in the life of Gordon Tracy.


**Managing Ming.**

Written for the TIWF's 2010 ficswap challenge. With apologies to EJB, the inspiration for this ficlet and who probably thought she was going to get a sensible story. But my profound thanks go to her for the idea anyway. I like ficswaps. Not only do I not actually have to come up with an idea but this way, if you like the story then it's _mine_. If not, then it's all her fault. :)

Disclaimers: None of them belong to me.

Warnings: It's Gordon. What more needs to be said? Stream of (semi-)consciousness stuff. I've rated it T but there's profanity. Lots of profanity. And a wee bit of violence. If these things bother you, please don't read on.

The brief/story so far…

_The Hood causes an accident in Malaya to lure International Rescue to the scene. During the course of the rescue when the others are distracted, The Hood in disguise manages to hypnotise Gordon and take him to his Temple home in the jungle. He is held hostage so the Hood can learn the secrets of International rescue._

**Managing Ming.**

…!

_Not _good!

In the immortal words of the great Captain Sparrow - don'cha just gotta love those old 2-D movies? - _NOT_ good!

Course, being a navy man myself, I guess Jack was technically one of the bad guys, but what the hell.

Rambling. Is any of this garbage actually coming out of my mouth?

"…ptht!"

Strike that. Nothing at all coming out of my mouth. Nothing coming out of the mouth 'cause it appears to be stuffed full of something. What in hell is wrong with me? Can't see. Can't move a whole lot.

I'm in the hospital, right? Yeah, that would explain it. Mouth full of the respirator tube, strapped down to stop me shifting around with all those broken bones, eyes taped shut? Hydrofoil accident. Yeah, I remember now. Okay, so I'm in the hospital. I can live with that (I hope). Though I don't think anyone's actually expecting me to. Live, that is. That's okay. Low expectations. That way everyone's happy when you exceed 'em.

Hang on…

…?

…erm?

Sorry.

Me being stupid here. Isn't the respirator supposed to actually, like, _do_ stuff? Breathe for you, for instance?

And my tongue can move. Well, kinda.

Okay, scrub the respirator. Jaw's wired. That must be it. Trap's shut.

Hang on…

…?

…erm?

Sitting up here. Well, again, _kinda_. Aren't they supposed to lay you down or something when you're injured?

Okay, chest injury, maybe?

So, through the nose:

hhhh….iiiiinnnn….

_one-banana, two-banana, three-banana_

hhh……oooout

Nope. Chest feels fine and dandy.

So – to recap - sitting up here. Except for the head, which is kinda lolling about like it has a life of its own.

_Upsadaisy_.

There we go. Whoa. Okay, wait for things to stop spinning……so. Where was I? Sitting up. Can't see. Eyes closed. Shut tight. Shut, as in there's something holding them shut. Can't call out. Because there's something in my mouth, remember, dummy? Can't move. Because….

"uft!"

… because my hands are tied behind my back.

Whoa – back up a moment here.

_Tied?_

_*£**!_

NOT GOOD!

Aw, crap. It's all coming back to me now.

Not hospital.

Not a hydrofoil accident. Been there, done that. Not even WASP anymore.

International Rescue now. Rescue. There was a rescue. Yep. Refinery fire, that was it. Me, Scott, Virgil. Probably wouldn't even have gone if Kyrano hadn't pleaded that it was about to spread and destroy his birthplace.

And Scott. Scott was bored. What can I say? The guy has a low boredom threshold.

Note to self: Encourage BB to take up a hobby. Knitting, maybe.

But good that we went, I guess, because somewhere along the way it got away from the locals and by the time we arrived it was a raging inferno, and toxic smoke really _was_ threatening most of the villages in a ten mile radius. Yep, turned into the Really Wild Show there for a while. So there we are, fire-fighting, but every time we get the fire out it starts up again somewhere else, like it has a life of its own. Couldn't figure it.

Well, of course, now I can.

Sabotage.

I _knew_ there was something familiar about that guy. The foreman guy.

The one with the….oh, Jeez. The one with the….the…..

Oh, I can't believe this.

This is _so_ freakin' uncool.

I mean, Scott gets shot down by Zombites, whatever the hell _they_ are. Now _that's_ cool. Virgil gets shot down by the Sentinel (friendly fire, fractionally less cool, admittedly, but cool-ish, nonetheless). Alan gets stranded on a disused bridge with a ton of Semtex under his butt set to go off if he so much as breathes too hard. _Pretty_ darn cool. Me? I get flashy-eyed by a guy in yellow overalls, a walrus mustache, and a bad hair-cut, and down I go like a swooning…like a…like a _swooning _thing. Not cool.

Not even as if this is entirely unprecedented. Because this _has_ to be the same guy. That Hood guy. The guy who did the same thing to Tin-Tin and Brains last year.

So what are you, Gordon Tracy? A girl or a geek?

I'm not going to live this down. Assuming I'm going to live at all.

Note to self: Less of the self-defeating talk. Living this down alive will be a whole lot better than living it down dead. They're all gonna think this is pretty hilarious either way, and a fella dies, how in hell is he supposed to deliver the payback?

Okay, so start figuring. How to get out of this hole?

Well….I guess I could figure it out, if I wasn't suddenly occupied by more pressing concerns. Where, oh where, in all the books, does it say that when a fella gets kidnapped and dragged off unconscious, hypnotized, whatever, to the bad guy's hideaway, that he wakes up with the sudden and urgent need to _pee_?

Note to self: Have now established that there are _two_ things un-cooler getting rescued alive from this situation – getting rescued dead, or getting rescued with wet pants. _Not_ gonna happen.

*Grits teeth*

Don't think about it.

At least my nose isn't itching.

…?!

…aw, crap!

_Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it._

Well, I guess all this not thinking about peeing or my nose itching is taking my mind off what I'm doing here, and how long it's likely to last.

…wha..?

Footsteps.

Not certain if this is good or not. Good means I get to pee. Bad means I get to die.

Okay, think. The guy isn't going to take the risk of knocking me out and bringing me to….wherever this is if he wants me dead. Right? _Right?_

"Unf!"

Note to self: Duct tape being ripped off hurts like hell. Don't try it at home, kiddies, not if you value your eyelashes.

"I see you are conscious, Tracy."

Never trust people who don't use word contractions.

_Ouch!_

Risk running tongue around lips. Duct tape has the same effect on lips as it has on eyelashes.

Look around cautiously. The light should hurt my eyes, but it doesn't. There isn't enough of it.

I can see a little.

What the hell is that crazy statue over there?

Weird place.

"Wha…what do you want?" _Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!_ Gordon Tracy hits the originality jackpot.

Don't quite want to look at the guy.

Yellowbelly. Look him in the eye.

_Cripes! _

It's Ming the Merciless, I swear it is.

Glance downwards, half-expecting to be poised above Planet Mungo.

Realize he's spoken before I've registered it. "S-s-sorry?"

Settles that question, at least. I'm clearly turning into Brains. Let's hope I've acquired the geek's problem solving powers along with his stammer.

"You are here to help me. For many years I have wished to obtain the secrets of your organization. Finally, now, I will have them."

Find my tongue. "You're getting nothing from me, pal."

This isn't entirely true. I've got a high pain threshold, sure. You don't win an Olympic gold without pushing through the pain barrier on a daily basis. And then there was the accident. Oh, man, professional torturers have nothing on physical therapists. But there's no-one that can't be broken, given time and the right kind of pressure. Trouble is, I don't know a whole lot compared to say Brains, or John, or even Virgil, and I'm wondering what kind of a mess I'll be before he figures this out.

He smiles.

_That's_ not pretty.

"Arrogant child. You think I have taken you for your knowledge?"

Okay. So…?

"Tracy has one weakness. He cares about his sons."

Casual. "His…? Oh, you think…well, I can tell you, you lucked out, pal. I'm just the hired help."

"_Silence, scum!"_

Now, _that's_ scary. Guy has a loud voice, y'know?

"Do you take me for a fool?" he continues.

Don't think there's a right answer to that one, so stay quiet for once for cryin' out loud, Gor…"Rather not take you at all, buddy."

Whoops, there it goes. Mouth opens, words come out.

_//Gordon to brain, come in, brain.// _No response. Shit.

He smirks. That's even less pretty than the smile.

"D'you think?" I ask hastily, by way of changing the topic, "that if we're going to skip the whole _we have ways of making you talk_ stuff, you could let me take a leak?"

Don't much like that scornful way he turns his head.

"'Cause much as I'd love to see you with a mop in your hand, that's what it's gonna come to otherwise."

"Weakling," he mutters.

_Whatever. _

He moves around me to release me. "Do not try anything, Tracy."

Yee-ouch. This feels good in a strangely masochistic way. Muscles are stiff as all hell, though.

He nods towards a bucket in the corner.

"You never hear of the ballcock in this country?"

He doesn't respond. Maybe it's for the best.

Possibilities for escape present themselves. I consider them all fleetingly, but first things first.

Aaaaahhh.

Heaven is an empty bladder. I know guys who can't perform when they're watched. Not me. Between the random drug tests and months in a hospital bed every last shred of inhibition evaporated years ago.

The only question is whether or not I bother to zip up before I hit him.

_Before_. It has more of an element of surprise. Mov…

…!

OW, OW, OW, OW, OW, OW, OW, EOW, EOOOOOOOOUCH!

OW!

OW!

_Fuck!_

Did you…did you just…_taser_ me?!

_Bas_tard!

Dimly aware of being dragged back to my chair and pinned down again.

Sonofabitch doesn't even bother to pass comment. The steps retreat.

Feels like the eyes and ears are stuffed with paper, but clarity slowly returns.

That really hurt.

Alone in the gloom again, start to think.

We train for hostage scenarios. Hijacks, kidnappings, you name it, we've trained for it. Problem is that in all the training scenarios Yours Truly is on the other side of the rescue. Nowhere in all our mock-ups did we factor in the possibility that it might be one of our butts that needed pulling out of the fire. But at least I know what the likely MOs will be.

Footsteps. The Hood's back.

Camcorder.

"You are going to send a message to your despised father."

A bright light suddenly shines in my eyes. A few feet from my face, he opens a sheet of paper with some scrawl.

"Read," he demands.

"Sorry, pal. Can't see it."

That earns me a slap across the face.

"Seriously. Need my contacts. Otherwise you'll have to shimmy up real close."

Hopefully into camera shot.

I have twenty-twenty, of course, but _he_ ain't gonna know that.

This actually seems to have thrown him.

"Tell you what," I suggest helpfully. "Why don't you read it out quietly and I'll sort of repeat it back. You know, _I, Gordon, take thee, Ming_, kind of thing?"

He stares at me, apparently utterly perplexed.

"Just a suggestion," I mutter.

He flutters the piece of paper at me. "Read!" he demands. I get the feeling he means it.

Sigh. "Okay, here goes." I pretend to squint. "Dad….er, hi, it's me. Well, obviously. Sorry about this. _Please_ don't take this out of my allowance." I raise my voice a bit. Olivier? Too English. Nicholson? Too crazy. _(Heeeeeere's Gordy!)_ Cagney? Maybe. Naw. Orson Welles, I think. "My captor demands that in exchange for my worthless…hey, don't you think that's a bit strong?…my apparently worthless skin, you forthwith relinquish the details and specifications of all the Thunderbird machines together with your heavy rescue equipment, armaments, computer guidance and stealth systems. Details for the delivery will be sent to your hated headqu…what do you mean, hated? I don't hate my headquarters."

Ominous growl.

"Okay, okay. Your hated headquarters. Your son…doesn't say which son. Oh, me. Sorry. Not paying attention here. Your son – me – will be released unharmed – you call tasering me _unharmed_?!…released 'unharmed' upon verification of the goods. Well, thank goodness for that. I thought you might make me build the damn things for you. Slave labor, y'know? Oops, sorry, Dad. You're always telling me not to put ideas into people's heads. Whatever the hell. Just come get me, will you?…Will that do? Don't know why you couldn't just tell him yourself."

"He will want proof that you are still alive."

"But you could just kill me after I've made this." //_Gordon to brai…aw, give up...//_

He leans right forward and pushes his face into mine. He sure is ugly. "Don't tempt me, Tracy."

"Whoa – you really should go easy on the garlic there, pal, y'know what I'm saying?"

He pulls out the duct tape again.

"Don't you know it's real easy to kill a guy by gagging him?" I ask nervously.

"I will just have to take that chance." I swear his tone is positively smug.

"Even if I promise to shut ungf? Ung ungfitty ungf!"

Damn.

This is not going well. I should have been able to take him. He's more than twice my age, right?

Okay. Assess the situation. Swallowed my transmitter about 48 hours ago. If it's still transmitting, it's from behind a bush on the edge of the danger zone somewhere. So no-one knows where I am.

Trussed up like the Thanksgiving turkey. I can at least see now, but my hands and feet are tied, and I'm gagged again. Not that anyone's going to come running if I yell. The place sounds deserted. I think he's done it so he can have some peace and quiet, that's all.

The chair I'm sitting on is…well, less of a chair and more of a sort of throne thing. While it's nice that someone recognizes my greatness, it doesn't promise to tip over and break any time soon.

So nothing's gonna change unless he comes back and unties me again. The likeliest possibility for escape is if Dad sets up some kind of false exchange. I'll need to keep my wits about me, grab my chance.

Strike that. There isn't going to be an exchange. The guy'll want a download before he agrees to let me go. And he doesn't strike me as the kind who'll keep his end of any bargain.

I'm toast.

Okay. Think.

He has to deliver the message to Dad.

Johnny will be able to trace the webcast back to its origin. The guy's the best there is. Mind's eye moment - picture him waiting for the ransom demand, e-mojo dancing, ready and waiting to kick virtual ass as soon as there's contact. Doesn't matter how good this guy is, Johnny will be better.

'cept…

…what day is this? Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, right, Sunday…

…except that John's on the dark side of the moon setting up a deep space telescope for NASA.

Toast. With peanut butter.

My brain is beginning to hurt. Too much thinking. Goin' round in circles. Too tired to think straight.

So I guess it wouldn't hurt to have a little shuteye here. Just so I'm fresh for the escape opportunity when it comes. Cause there'll be an escape, never doubt it. Like Steve McQueen. Just hand me the baseball glove and keep the faith. I'm not planning on dying here. Sure. There'll be an opportunity. So have to…yeah, just a little, a litt…

…

…

…

…

_!!!!!!!!!!!_

_What the…?_

Reorient.

I'm….yes, oh, shit, I'm _here_.

What was that?

Explosion.

Loud one. Another.

You gotta hope this is the cavalry.

It has to be Virgil. Surely. The guy just loves to blow things up.

But no. There's a small rustle behind me. I twist.

"Easy. Just me."

Virgil appears in my eye line. He hunkers down, a knife between his teeth, using _me_ as a shield in case anyone comes in the door. Thanks a bunch, brother. I don't like the way he's glancing around nervously. It means the enemy's still about.

He starts with my mouth. Might seem like an odd place to start, but I guess he needs to know if the Hood has me wired up to any nasty surprises. Hurts. He's gentle, but it hurts.

"You okay?' I feel him sawing at the bonds that hold me.

"Missing my teddy bear. I'm clean. Don't know about the room. Where's Scott?"

"On sharpshooter duty. Our sniper's tied up, remember?"

"How d'you find me so quickly? Not the edible transmitter?"

He just rolls his eyes. "You really bought that stuff?"

"Stuff?"

He laughs. "The edible transmitter routine."

"_Stuff_?" My voice rises about an octave.

"Gordon, do you remember the conversation we had about the fat guy in red who comes down the chimney at Christmas?"

"What?"

"Hate to be the one to tell you, kid, but we microchipped you years ago."

"But…" Stop, spluttering. "You've had a tail on my butt non-stop for years? No edible transmitter just for rescues?"

"Mm-hm." He's stuck the knife back between his teeth and is tugging at the bonds now. I feel them loosening and rub my wrists. "We didn't want to tell you. But the edible transmitter routine keeps Grandma happy."

"So you know everywhere I've been and exactly what I've been up to – for _years_?"

"Mm-hm."

"So what have I been eating all this time?"

"Honestly? Gummy bears."

"I can't believe this! What the hell happened to privacy? I just can't believe that you'd do something like that to a guy without his permission. I mean, do you know how many laws you're breaking just…."

"Gordon?"

"What?"

"Shut up. Can you walk?"

"Sure." Get to feet, fall over.

He swings me up easily over his shoulder. The indignity of it all. Given the choice, I'll settle for undignified over dead, though.

Outside the stone throne room the building's largely been converted to a military bunker. I just hope there isn't a small army hidden away in here.

"Hang on – if you're not on explosives duty, who is?" I mumble into his armpit.

"Alan."

"Alan? You realize he's probably blown up your Bird by now."

"Alan isn't the one that got his butt kidnapped in the first place."

"Alan wasn't there," I reminded him.

He can't argue with that. He flicks the comm switch on his lapel. "Guys, I have the package. Give me a line of retreat."

I can't hear the exchange that follows, but I wriggle a bit to let him know that the package has regained the use of its extremities.

He takes the hint and tips me back onto my feet. As he does so, my hand strays and closes, unfelt, around his ammo belt.

I smile a secret smile.

And as we move along the corridor, there it is. The perfect opportunity presents itself. I dart off to one side.

"Gordon!" Virgil hisses. "What in hell?"

"Need the head."

"You have got to be kidding me!"

"Thirty seconds," I promise.

I don't actually need to go again – I've had no fluids since I got here - but this is just too good an opportunity to miss. I position the smoke grenade just under the seat, pull the pin and reposition. The spring's primed to go off the moment Ming lifts the lid. That'll make him think twice about making his houseguests use a bucket.

Back in the corridor, Virgil's seething. I smooth down my hair with an innocent smile and move off. "Coming?" I ask.

He gives me a murderous look and starts after me.

We make it all the way to the exit before we run into the Hood and what looks like a small rocket launcher.

The expression on his face tells me that the _Merciless_ epitaph is a fitting one.

Well, I guess it was a good life.

His finger tightens on the trigger.

It disappears.

Along with a good portion of the trigger.

The Bald One falls to his knees, nursing his hand and screaming obscenities in Malay. Well, so I assume. He might just be yelling for his mother.

Virgil's own weapon jerks up, but it's pretty much all over. He goes into emergency aider mode, and reaches into his back-pack for disinfectant and bandages. I notice he isn't in a hurry, though.

Five minutes later Scott saunters down like he's taking a Sunday afternoon stroll by the pool.

"Okay?" he asks casually.

"Fine," I respond. "Nice shooting."

He contemplates our fallen foe. "I'd like to say modestly that I was aiming for his head, but I was actually aiming for his trigger finger," he observes.

A moment later Alan tears up to join us. "Gordon!!"

The relief in his voice is evident. It's nice to know that at least one of my brothers really, truly understands that I've undergone a major ordeal here.

He reaches across and grabs me by the shirt front. "Do you know what you've put me through, you lousy, rotten, sonofabitch?! The guys had to come and haul me away from a weekend's pass in Tahiti with Tin-Tin. It'll be months before I get another chance!"

"Yeah, right," I mutter. "Because I got myself abducted on purpose."

Scott chuckles softly. "No worries, Alan. I'm sure Gordon will be happy to trade you his next pass."

"I have plans for that weekend," I say with dignity.

"Anything like your last weekend off-base?" Virgil asks sweetly, looking up from bandaging our adversary, who is moaning piteously. Moaning Ming. We all ignore him. "The one where you told us you were meeting up with old friends from WASP when you actually snuck off to Miami to race your hydrofoil again?"

"This is a violation of my civil rights," I point out. "The minute I get home, this microchippy thing comes out."

Scott glances around and shrugs. "Whatever you say, kid. Just don't expect us to back up Plan A with Plan B next time."

"Plan B?"

He fishes into a pocket and pulls out a portable hard drive, waving it tantalizingly in front of the Hood's nose. "This what you wanted, pal?"

The Hood glares at him and leaves off moaning long enough to threaten. "You are a dead man, Tracy. You and your brothers. You are all dead men. You just do not know it."

"Yeah, yeah," Scott says offhandedly. "In thirty years, after you get out of jail maybe." He looks around quizzically. "Or is kidnapping a capital offense here?" he muses to no-one in particular.

His head turns and I catch the distant sound of choppers.

Later, we let the local law enforcement mop up and take the hoverbikes to where Virgil has parked Two.

As we head up to the flight deck, Scott stops me gently. "Not you. Get some rest, Gordon."

"I'm fine."

"Sure you are." He glances pointedly to my hand. Okay, so I have minor shakes. Glucose low, that's all.

But I learned a long time ago not to argue with Scott in this mood.

"You got any candy?" I ask.

Of course he has candy. He always has candy. He delves in his pack and tosses me a Hershey bar and bottled water. "Drink," he says. It isn't a suggestion. I pull off the cap.

"Sorry," I say, slightly abashed.

"For?"

"Getting caught like a rookie."

"We've been after this guy's hideaway for months, Gordon. You did us a favor. I'm just glad you're okay. Now try to get some rest. We're not far away."

"Scott?"

"Gordon," he responds patiently.

"What was actually on that drive?"

"What he asked for."

"You are kidding me, right?'

He gives a small smile. He's not giving much away.

"You mean there are actual plans of Thunderbird One on there?"

"Yep."

"But you made some fancy changes, right? Real subtle, so that he wouldn't notice, but that if he tried to build it, it would blow up in his face, right?"

"Nope."

"Well, what in hell were you gonna do if your plan hadn't worked and you'd had to hand the thing over?"

He shrugs. "Get Brains to build something bigger and better, I guess."

I sit back. I'm at a loss for words, for once, so I just think. Actually, I'm at a loss for thoughts too.

So I just feel.

…I feel relief, yes. A bit stupid, maybe. But somewhere, deep down, there's a real warm glow starting up that probably shouldn't be there

He jerks his head briefly before heading off to join Virgil in the cockpit. "You might wanna think about zipping your fly," he calls back.

My…? _Oops_. That taser must have wiped out some memory cells.

There we go, that's better. But it's set something else niggling at the back of my brain.

_Oo..!!!!_

Yep, now I remember. Well, let's just hope none of the local gendarmes needs to use the washroom…


End file.
